


All Buttered Up

by TheTenderBats



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M, and being in love, and butter, baking and kissing and broken cars, so much butter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTenderBats/pseuds/TheTenderBats
Summary: Patrick’s car dies on the way to pick up Alexis from the airport. A Very Amish Adventure ensues.
Relationships: Alexis Rose/Twyla Sands, Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65





	All Buttered Up

**Author's Note:**

> A group project from the Rosebudd Motel, in which a group of writers—or 29 toddlers in a trench coat—decided to try and write one story. With no plot outline or coordination. Each person had to work within the following parameters: keep the rating at M or below, write 200-800 words in present tense from David’s POV, and, if desired, work in a small reference to one of their fics. And nearly 13,000 words later, here we are. 
> 
> These words brought to you by [this_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing), [Likerealpeopledo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/), [vivianblakesunrisebay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianblakesunrisebay/), [missgeevious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missgeevious/), [houdini74](https://archiveofourown.org/users/houdini74), [spiffymittens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiffymittens), [Elswherefumbling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elswherefumbling/), [samwhambam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwhambam/), [singsongsung](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/), [Januarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Januarium/), [petrodobreva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrodobreva/), [nontoxic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nontoxic), [maxbegone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/), [yourbuttervoicedbeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/yourbuttervoicedbeau), [midnightstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightstreet/), [RhetoricalQuestions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricalQuestions/), [sonlali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonlali/), [NeelyO](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeelyO/), [DelilahMcMuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelilahMcMuffin/), [whetherwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whetherwoman/), [another_Hero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_Hero/), [ships_to_sail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/), [didipickles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/didipickles/), [dameofpowellestate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dameofpowellestate/), [reginahalliwell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginahalliwell/), [swat117](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swat117/), [MoreHuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoreHuman), [kiranerys42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranerys42/), and [the_hodag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_hodag/)

David is in the kitchen grating zucchini when he hears the door slam. Marcy gave him her recipe last time she was here, and she bought them a microplane that she insisted is the secret. The recipe is easy, which is great since Patrick is currently producing an endless supply of the watery green gremlins. 

He can tell by the way Patrick’s shoes thud when he kicks them off that they lost the game. He’s going to huff in, cranky and pouting, looking very cute and maybe a little sweaty.

Patrick walks in and he is indeed all of those things, his lower lip not quite a full pout, but his eyebrows are very sulky looking. 

“I take it the game didn’t go well?” David asks, turning for a kiss.

Patrick manages to unpout long enough to press a kiss against David’s mouth. “No, we won.”

“Then what’s all this?” David uses the micoplane to gesture at Patrick.

Patrick’s eyes crinkle with confusion, then annoyance. “There are _nicer_ ways to ask me what’s wrong.” David shrugs and waits for Patrick to continue. “The check-engine light came on again in my car.”

“We are not putting more money into that car. That last repair was practically _two_ Neil Barrett sweaters.” Patrick opens his mouth to object, but David holds up the half-grated zucchini. “What does your car spreadsheet say?”

“That we need to stop putting money into that vehicle.”

“Okay, then that’s settled. We’ll look at new cars this weekend. We’ll fit it in around looking at that space with Ray. Your dad told me there’s a lot of good leasing options right now.”

“He—what? Why?”

“I guess he knows I’m the _reasonable_ one about large expenditures.” David gives a little shimmy. It’s a joke, but it’s also true. Patrick doesn’t like spending a lot of money at once.

Patrick laughs, clear and bright, all traces of the pout gone. “Ah yes, my fiscally responsible husband.”

“Are you gonna help me make this zucchini bread now? Alexis won’t land for another couple of hours.”

To be clear, David doesn’t technically need _help—_ it’s basically just two cups of flour, sugar, some eggs, and some oil—but something about watching Patrick’s ringed fingers deftly crack yolks and whites into a bowl is more potent than all the recreational drugs David has ever ingested. And certainly does more for him carnally than he could have imagined possible. (For instance, using the word _carnally._ In the kitchen, no less.)

“Let me wash my hands,” Patrick agrees, his sweat-musky scent tickling David’s senses as Patrick goes about soaping up like he’s scrubbing in for surgery. “I don’t remember my mom’s recipe ever calling for a tablespoon of perspiration from failed athletic pursuits.”

“Ew. Gross. No. Ew. Keep that far away from my bread, please.” David nudges at Patrick’s hip with his own.

“Your bread,” Patrick huffs as he diligently measures out sugar and oil and then swings over to the fridge for the carton of farm-fresh eggs before reinvading David’s space. “I seem to remember when my mom offered you the first piece, you mentioned how unfair it was that a vegetable was being disguised as cake. Or was that someone else?” 

“Hmph.” They do their little dance again, David shuffling over as Patrick cracks the first egg against the lip of the bowl. David’s heart may samba slightly in his chest. “I was...misinformed. Misguided. I didn’t know the power of vanilla extract at the time.”

“Apparently not.” Patrick cracks the next two eggs then adds the aforementioned vanilla before dropping another kiss on the corner of David’s mouth. He glances around at the state of the counters, taking in the horror show of bowls and implements spread out on every surface. David is still working on cleaning as he goes when he bakes. Patrick leans in, focusing on the grated vegetable in David’s bowl. “Is this overkill maybe?”

David may be frustrated by the looming car purchase and the cramp he’s getting from using the micro-blade. “I’m only baking this much because of the size of your fucking zucchini!”

Patrick blinks at him slowly. “I thought size didn’t matter, David.”

David momentarily considers waving his sharp object with a more threatening intent but Patrick gives him one of those ridiculous, full-face, not-at-all cute winks and David goes as gooey as the batter he’d like to have mixed in the bowl. “Ugh.”

“Well, you seem like you have this covered and I need to shower before we get Alexis.” Patrick pushes the bowl of unmixed ingredients closer to David as if to leave. “Have you seen my mustard sweater?”

David makes an undignified noise, not sure if he’s more put out by the questionable sartorial choice or the lack of proper forearm-aided whisking. “Please exit my kitchen at once,” he commands, but he’s already watching Patrick walk down the hall toward their bedroom.

He can’t say he minds the view. 

**

David feels nervous. They are driving Patrick’s car. David lent Stevie the Lincoln so she could take a road trip to a motel she’s thinking of adding to the Rosebud Motel Group. So it’s Patrick’s car or nothing. Patrick gets in and starts it and the check-engine light stays off. 

“But it was on before,” David says, hovering uncertainly by the passenger door. 

“It’ll be okay for one trip,” Patrick says. “I once drove around for almost two weeks with the check-engine light on.” His cautious husband has certain areas of unwarranted overconfidence, and thinking he knows something about cars is one of them. 

“But what happened at the _end_ of the two weeks?” David asks. 

“It’ll be fine, David. Let’s go,” Patrick says. David wants to argue further, but they are running out of time, so he gets in the car. 

So far, it seems okay. Patrick has recovered his good mood. He is clad in his mustard-yellow sweater, which seems to have, inexplicably, cheered him up. He’s humming and tapping the steering wheel to Mariah’s “Daydream.”

“I can’t believe you brought the zucchini bread,” Patrick says, an indulgent note in his voice.

David glances down at the loaf in his lap. “It was too hot to slice, and I didn’t want to wait until we got back. I deserve to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

“But you can’t slice it in the car. Are you just going to pick it up and eat it like a burrito?”

“If I have to.”

Patrick shoots him a laughing glance, the one that still makes David’s heart beat a little faster, and he can’t help reaching out to trail his hand along Patrick’s forearm.

Just then, there is a clunking noise from the front of the car.

“Oh, it’s not supposed to sound like that, is it?” David says. 

_“Obviously_ not, David,” Patrick bites out. He hits the brakes and carefully guides the car onto the shoulder.

David bristles at his tone. “I’m sorry, _one_ of us decided he was an expert on cars today, and it wasn’t me.”

Patrick brings the car to a stop and puts it in park. There is a hissing noise and steam rises from the front of the car.

Patrick’s mouth is set in a grim line, and David closes his mouth, too, to stop it from saying _I told you so_. 

He clears his throat. “I’ll just call Bob, then,” he says.

“I’m just going to look at it,” Patrick says, and gets out of the car. David bites back his opinion about how useful that will be, which Patrick will surely not find welcome.

Patrick raises the hood, blocking him from David’s sight, as David texts Alexis to tell her to take a cab, and then calls Bob. 

David is just getting off the phone when there is another ominous rumble—which takes him a moment to realize is not coming from the car—and then it begins to rain, very hard. David can’t see Patrick but can hear him struggling to close the hood. David can hear unintelligible sounds and an impressive number of curse words, for Patrick.

Patrick gets the hood down and then he is wrenching the front door open and hurling himself into the front seat of the car. He is very wet. Now the mustard sweater is soaked and clinging to Patrick’s body, which improves its appearance immeasurably. 

Patrick runs his hands through his wet hair.

“Did you get a hold of Bob?” he asks.

David says, “Yes. He can come, but not for a while. He’s in Thornbridge.”

“Thornbridge? What’s he doing there?”

“Apparently, trying out for _The Vagina Monologues._ Ever since _Cabaret_ , he’s been trying out for every production in the greater Elms area. So, he’ll be here in maybe three or four hours.”

“Three or four hours,” Patrick mumbles.

“If we’re lucky,” David says.

Patrick leans back in his seat. _“Fuck,”_ he says, heartfelt. David can’t agree more.

David picks up the loaf in his lap. He takes a bite and offers it to Patrick. “Zucchini bread?"

They never get to the zucchini bread because Patrick decides being trapped in the car during a rainstorm is an excellent reason to make out for a bit. David agrees with a parting thought to the freshly baked treat. This improves morale dramatically all around though, much more than the carbs would have been able to. However, Patrick is damp and David is wearing Givenchy so he spends a lot of time trying to wrestle Patrick into staying on his own side of the car. The problem is, his husband is really fucking cute when he pouts and David’s resolve is weakening, as are his arms.

That’s how the Amish farmer finds them: windows fogged, faces flushed, and Patrick half in David’s lap because David can’t fend him off any longer. Honestly, he’s maybe not trying as hard as he _could_ be to keep Patrick off him. He’s giggling into Patrick’s mouth when the farmer raps loudly on the window and they both startle away from one another. “What the fuck?!” David shouts. 

When he wipes some of the condensation off the inside of his window and sees who is standing outside the car he adds, “Oh, shit.”

 _“David,”_ Patrick hisses quietly at him while nodding politely at the pious man dressed all in black and trying to slide back to his own side of the car as unobtrusively as possible.

“What?” David says, voice rising again and throwing him a disgruntled look. “It’s nothing he hasn’t heard me say before unless he’s come down with a hint of amnesia.”

Patrick’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

“Remember me telling you about the time I borrowed Roland’s truck and tried to leave Schitt’s Creek?”

Patrick grins. “When Roland tells the story he says you _stole_ the truck.”

“Incorrect,” David sniffs, waving a hand. “Regardless, this is the farmer that found me on the side of the road that time too.”

Patrick’s eyes flick from David to the farmer and back again. “No way.”

“Mmm-hmm. Yep.” David nods several times. 

“That means…”

David is still nodding as he finishes Patrick’s sentence: “...we finally have a chance at convincing them to let us sell Miriam’s butter at the Apothecary. I know.”

“David,” Patrick breathes and rubs his palms on his jeans. “We can’t screw this up.”

 _“I know,”_ David repeats, annoyance creeping back into his voice. _“I’m_ the one that’s tasted the butter. You have no idea. Patrick. We need to make this happen.” He takes a deep breath and squeezes Patrick’s hand. “Are we ready to do this?”

“Open the door,” Patrick says with that resolute confidence that always sends heat racing through David’s body. 

David clenches his eyes shut, willing his body not to respond to Patrick’s tone of voice, and opens the door. 

“Do you boys need some help?” David searches his memory for the man’s name as he peers in at them. Yammer? Yodel? No, Yoder, that was it. He scrambles out of the car. “Oh, it’s you.” Mr. Yoder’s taciturn face doesn’t change but he doesn’t offer his hand either. “Running away from home again, are you?”

“Uh, no?” David chews his lip, uneasy about how this might go. He’d never dreamed he might see the Yoders again. Despite his daily dreams about their delicious butter, there’s a reason he’s never approached them to sell their products in the store. “My, uh, husband and I were on our way to the airport to pick up my sister.”

“Huh. Well, our farm’s just across the way, I'm sure you remember. You might as well come wait—although my Rachel won’t be too happy to see you.” Before David can introduce Patrick, Mr. Yoder turns and strides up the driveway behind them. David grabs the zucchini bread off the dash and, with a sideways glance at Patrick, struggles to hurry up the muddy roadway after him. 

“He seems to really like you.” Patrick smirks at him as they scurry through the rain. This Givenchy sweater is getting wetter than he’d like but he’s certainly not prepared to run, so he grits his teeth and makes the best of it.

“Mmm.” David grabs Patrick’s arm, pulling him to a stop before they can approach the house. “Listen, there’s something I haven’t told you about the time I stayed here—”

“Aaron? What’s going on?” Mrs. Yoder appears on the front porch, wiping her hands on her apron. “Do these young men need help? Oh, it’s you.” She narrows her eyes at David and gestures firmly to the front porch. “You can stay out of the rain, but that’s it. Don’t think you’ll be staying overnight like last time.” David grimaces at her as she turns and heads back inside, the screen door banging behind her.

“Wow. She likes you even more than her husband does.” Curiosity laces through the amusement in Patrick’s voice. Fuck. He’s going to have to tell Patrick the truth about what happened the last time he was here. He tips his head back, closing his eyes against the rain. 

“David, what did you do?” 

“Nothing.” Patrick raises one sparse eyebrow. “I mean, practically nothing.” David purses his lips and looks away. 

“I have a feeling there’s a lot of exposition living in ‘practically.’”

“Okay!” David throws his hands up. “Just remember that this was five years ago, alright? Like a year before we met. I was a...less-evolved person back then.”

“Five years ago, I still thought I was going to marry Rachel.” Patrick says mildly. “I think we can agree we’ve both grown since then.” He waits a beat. “Well?”

“So I was less evolved, and I was feeling very...abandoned. I texted Alexis and said where I was and they still left me here for like three days.”

Patrick looks at him pointedly.

“I just. Um. May have said some things that were, in retrospect, possibly ungrateful about the lack of...amenities...in their home. It is also possible that I _accidentally_ contaminated a batch of Miriam’s butter because I used it for cuticle cream.” David stops, hoping he’s humiliated himself enough, but Patrick just keeps looking at him with those implacably loud eyes. 

“Ugh, fine, I may have also advised Rachel to add a halter neckline to the dress she was sewing because it really would have flattered those big, broad shoulders of hers—oh fuck you, stop laughing!” 

But Patrick, the troll, is snickering helplessly, one hand covering his mouth while his shoulders shake. “Wow, honey. You really made an impression, is what I’m hearing.”

David glares at his husband, then slowly folds himself onto a bench. “Yeah, laugh it up,” he says acidly. The rain is coming down so hard it’s spattering off the top of Patrick’s car. “It’s so great that my stupid mouth is the reason we’re standing out here in wet clothes.”

Patrick tucks his smile away, sensing the shift in his husband’s mood. He sits down next to David and rubs his hand soothingly across his shoulders. “Hey, what’s our rule?” he says with mock severity.

David rolls his eyes. “This is so fucking corny, Patrick.”

“I don’t care. What’s our rule, David?”

David ducks his head. “No talking shit about your husband,” he recites.

“Damn straight. And I happen to like your rude mouth.” Patrick's eyes blaze with a sudden lick of heat and he leans in. But instead of the scorching kiss David was hoping for, Patrick pecks him on the nose— _on the nose_ —and pulls back with a wink. “But if you want Miriam to sell us her butter, maybe you’d better go and apologize for last time.”

“I would rather sit in a hot tub with Roland Schitt.”

“Come on, David, it won’t be so bad.”

“I would rather sit in a hot tub with Roland Schitt while he and Jocelyn re-enact the sex scene from _Halloween II._ ”

“Wait, don’t they get killed in that scene?”

“That’s even _less_ reason for me to want to be there,” David says. “Or here, for that matter.”

“Aww, it’ll be a real growing experience for you,” says Patrick with faux sympathy. “Here, you can even give them your zucchini bread as a peace offering.”

“No, nope, I refuse, I just—where are you going? Don’t knock! _Do not knock on that door, Patrick_. If you knock they’re going to _answer_.”

“That would be the point." Patrick crosses his unfairly hot forearms across his chest. “You’d better get up here if you’re going to make your big apology. Someone’s coming.”

“I fucking hate you so fucking much,” David hisses as he skids up to Patrick, then slaps a big smile on his face as the door swings open. “Oh, _hello_ , Rachel!” he says brightly. 

**

David grimaces at his reflection; the small mirror atop the dresser offers barely enough of a view to allow him to transform his damp hair into some sort of acceptable style. He runs his thumbs along the underside of his suspender straps, encouraging them to lay flat against the stiff poly-cotton blend of the collared shirt Rachel has given him. When he woke up this morning he never imagined he would be standing in the same stark bedroom in which he spent three days soul searching five years ago, let alone dressed like _this_. 

But, it really is a relief to have his sweater laying flat to dry. And, he supposes, even if these pants are baggier than any he has worn since his candy-raver days, at least they are comfortable, and an acceptable color too. 

He gives himself one last mostly-approving glance in the mirror before picking up the foil-wrapped zucchini bread and opening the door to the hallway. As if on cue, Patrick opens the door across the hall, clad in a similar outfit. And _wow_. Patrick’s sleeves are rolled up, exposing his muscular forearms. The black suspenders highlight the breadth of his shoulders and accentuate his solid chest as the thickly woven straps rise and fall with every breath Patrick takes. David would be lying if he said it wasn’t kind of working for him; his breath hitches when he notices the droplet of water still clinging to Patrick’s throat just above the two undone fasteners on his shirt. David feels a flood of warmth spread through him as he watches Patrick gaze rake over him too. When Patrick’s eyes meet his, they are dark and full of want. 

David quirks an eyebrow and lifts a corner of his mouth as if to say, “Oh really!” Patrick smirks in response and smacks his closed hand with his fist; David knows he’s trying to regain his composure. His voice still comes out hoarse when he finally speaks, “Come on David. Let’s see how we can get you back into their good graces.” He turns and starts walking down the hallway. David lets himself be distracted by the loose fabric sliding teasingly over Patrick's ass as he readies himself to be gracious to his temporary hosts. 

When he walks into the living room, Rachel stops her sewing to look up at him. She narrows her eyes just a touch and David wants to turn around, run away, take these clothes off, and never look back. But he recognizes that he should apologize, not just so he has a shot at the contract, but because he was a pill the last time he was here. 

He blames wanting to be a _slightly_ better person on Patrick. 

“Rachel,” David starts. The zucchini bread is the only thing he can feel as he gears up for the apology. 

“David,” she says, voice all hard, and David is intimidated.

“Thank you for allowing my husband and I to take refuge in your home,” David says. Her eyes flicker past him to Patrick, and back quickly. “I’m sorry for how I acted the last time, and I will refrain from touching your delicious butter.”

Rachel doesn’t look pleased yet. So he continues. 

“And I shouldn’t have made the comment about the dress you were sewing.”

Rachel looks … confused? Maybe he didn’t say that one out loud…

“Anyways, I’m sorry, for everything.” David turns to look at Patrick, who gives him just a little shrug. “I have some homemade zucchini bread that I brought in from the car and would like to share some with you as a thank you.”

When he looks back, Rachel is looking at Aaron, who also shrugs. 

“Alright.” She sighs as she puts her sewing down and stands up. “I have fresh butter. Come eat.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder and he lets Patrick lead him after her. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard, David,” Patrick whispers just loud enough for David to hear. It was suspiciously easy. 

He watches Rachel cut the bread, handing them each a slice on a white plate with a blue border. The butter is perfect when he finally spreads it over his slice, and when he bites into it, it’s just as delightful as David remembers. They really need to broach the topic of selling the butter in the store.

He’s about to mention it when his phone dings. It’s from Alexis. 

“Alexis is already at the house,” David says. He turns to face Patrick who furrows his eyebrows and taps at David’s phone until the lock screen lights up. 

“I didn’t realize we’d been here so long.” Patrick’s eyes flick up to the ceiling like he does when he’s doing mental math. David’s not going to count; he’s just going to wait until Patrick says what he’s thinking. “Bob still won’t be at the car for another two hours."

“She can just use the spare key…” David trails off. He slouches just a hair closer to Patrick and places his hand on his thigh. Patrick’s thigh is reassuring and _very_ firm under his touch, which is the fun side effect of Patrick finally being allowed to join Ronnie’s winter hockey league.

“Except,” Patrick huffs out. 

“Stevie forgot to leave the spare and she’s in a different province,” David finishes for him. “We have to go back.”

“Is Bob going to pick up the car if we’re not there?” Patrick whisks the crumbs into his palm and drops onto his plate. David watches as Patrick smiles at Rachel, who gets up and collects the plates.

“Even if he doesn’t, maybe we should just let the raccoons and coyotes have the car,” David can’t help but suggest. The car is garbage and who better to inhabit it than raccoons. 

“Let’s go change, David.” Patrick stands up. “I’ll call Bob.”

**

Standing outside their house next to her white suitcase, drenched to the bone, a water-logged floppy hat clutched in one hand, Alexis looks murderous — truly, lethally murderous, like she did at the charity gala for endangered Bornean orangutans, squaring up with Anderson Cooper after the Seychelles Incident. When the clunky truck owned by Aaron’s non-Amish friend (inconveniently and confusingly named Pat) comes to a stop in their driveway, Patrick doesn’t move. When David glances over at him curiously, he discovers that his husband looks just the tiniest bit fearful.

He reaches across the space between them in the backseat and gives Patrick’s thigh a few bolstering pats. “We can’t tell her to stay at the motel, David!” he says, quoting Patrick back to himself. “She’s family!” He punctuates his words with a gentle touch to Patrick’s thigh, meant to remind him that they’re a team. “Come on.”

“ _David_ ,” Alexis says, the minute he’s opened the door. “Number one: what _happened_ to your sweater? Number two: how could you _abandon me_ in the rain?”

He leaves Patrick to thank Pat and heads toward the door. “We didn’t _abandon_ you, Alexis. We’ve been having a—an eventful day.” 

“You promised to pick me up,” she pouts.

David throws his arms into the air. “We were on our _way_ to pick you up; Patrick’s car broke down! Patrick’s the one who said it would be fi—”

“Ugh, no way, David. Do not blame your adorable husband for this.” As Patrick joins them, she gives his nose a boop, maintaining eye contact with David the whole time. 

“Yeah, David,” Patrick agrees, tilting a somewhat smug eyebrow at him before picking up Alexis’ bag and going to unlock the door. 

David barely manages not to splutter indignantly. This is not his preferred social dynamic, but he has no chance to point that out because Alexis is still talking. 

“You only have _one_ sister, you know, David,” she says, stepping inside and proceeding to drip all over the rug in their entryway. “I know Dad’s basically trying to adopt Stevie, but she does _not_ count, especially because you two—” She makes a very Ted-like gesture using both hands. “You could at least, like, make an _effort_.” 

Before David can retort, Patrick cuts in. “Actually,” he says. “David made zucchini bread.” 

Alexis peeks toward the kitchen, and must spot the loaves on the counter, because she gasps and brings both hands to her chest. “David!” she cries. “Are you, like, a little _baker_ now? That is such a cute look for you.” Suddenly, her expression changes, losing some of its brightness. “And such a _new_ look.” 

She practically pounces toward him, and David finds himself engulfed in a very wet hug. “I missed you,” Alexis says. She does a lot of frantic gesturing with one of her arms, and then Patrick ends up in the hug, too. David can’t see Patrick’s face, but he can feel his smile. 

“I missed you, too,” he says, rolling his eyes out of habit, despite the fact that he really did miss her. “But please get off me so we can all get out of these wet clothes.”

“Ugh, David, gross,” Alexis says, springing back. 

David throws up his hands as Patrick also removes himself from the hug. “Wow, mm-mm, no! You’re the one who made that weird!” He looks to his husband for support, but Patrick just looks deeply amused. “Ugh, I’m going to change—you know where your room is!”

Even as he’s stomping off, David enjoys calling it that; for most people, they call it the spare room, but whenever Alexis stays it’s _her_ room. They do the same with Stevie, who uses it more often—usually when she’s too faded to drive home—but he thinks they don’t mind sharing custody of a room in a house neither of them live in. David likes finding decorative accents for the room he thinks they’ll both enjoy; the latest is a small blown-glass pumpkin from an artist he’s trying to get to sign on to Rose Apothecary as a vendor.

He has the quickest and hottest shower he can manage, knowing Patrick will also want one. While he’s not generally opposed to them sharing showers, he _is_ against doing so when his sister has just arrived for her first visit in months. 

He dresses in his coziest sweater and joggers and emerges to find Patrick, sans his mustard sweater, prepping garlic bread in the kitchen. David enjoys the moment just before Patrick notices him, the way Patrick spreads thick layers of his homemade garlic butter over slices of the gorgeous french bread they get from a baker in Elmington. 

David clears his throat when Patrick’s finished the last slice and revels in the way Patrick’s face lights up when he notices David is there. It’s not even that his expression changes that much, and yet his energy totally transforms. David could watch it happen countless times and never tire of it.

“The lasagna’s already cooking; you just need to prep the salad and get this in the oven for the last ten minutes. I’m hopping in the shower for the _third_ time today,” Patrick says with a laugh as he approaches for a peck on the lips. David grabs on to get an extra kiss when Patrick moves to leave, because he can.

A few minutes later, Alexis comes into the kitchen wearing David’s AllSaints Breton Crew sweater—it’s white with horizontal black stripes and dwarfs her. He knows for a fact that was sitting in his closet when he came out of his own shower, because he’d nearly chosen it himself. She looks unfairly adorable.

“I see you made yourself at home,” he says with a pointed look at the sweater.

Alexis just grins and grabs one of the heirloom cherry tomatoes he washed for the salad. “Aww, David, you’re not just a little _baker_ , you’re like, your own personal chef!”

David twists his mouth and pulls the bowl of tomatoes out of her reach. “I think that’s just called ‘knowing how to cook.’” 

“Well,” Alexis says, wiggling in her chair, “it’s very impressive.”

“I’m sorry, did I just hear you take credit for making dinner?” Patrick appears through the kitchen doorway, leaning on the doorframe a lá Jared Leto.

“Are you trying to say I don’t know how to cook?” David snaps back. The retort is a little belated, but he was taking a moment. David’s not afraid to admit that he has what one might call a Pavlovian response to the hot-guy lean— _My So-Called Life_ was very formative.

Patrick grins. “David did actually manage to cobble together some pretty nice salmon the other night.”

“Excuse me, I did not _cobble together_ anything. That was an expertly executed, melt-in-your mouth lemon-saffron salmon from a traditional recipe that I spent a week researching.” It would have been even better if he could have made it sous vide. “You know, it would have been even better if we had a sous—”

“We are not getting a sous vide cooker,” Patrick interrupts. “It’s absolutely the last thing we need.”

“Oh, my god,” Alexis interjects. “I was talking to Samin Nosrat at this Equity in Media event a couple months ago. She was telling me that you haven’t _lived_ until you have had a sous vide tuna salad.”

“Equity in Media?” Patrick asks, flying right past the sous vide tuna thing, unfortunately.

“Yes,” Alexis says, and her face takes on a serious expression. “Equity in media is very important. And as a public relations specialist, it is my utmost responsibility to work diligently to better my _cultural competency_.”

“Mmm, yes,” says David. “Exactly whose keynote address are we quoting right now?”

“Stop, David! It is very serious and important. We all play a part in creating a more inclusive and diverse arts and entertainment industry.”

“You know, we’re having a bit of a public relations issue at the moment,” Patrick says, and David does not appreciate where he is going with this. “Maybe you could help us.”

“Yes, Patrick. Yes.” Alexis says. She leans forward, resting her chin on her fist. “How can I lend my expertise?”

“Do you happen to know anything about the Amish?” 

“What, did you like, get stranded at another Amish farm and offend their entire family again?”

David is silent for a moment, before glancing at Patrick and noticing the smirk on his face.

“Not _exactly_ , no, we just—”

“Oh my _god_ , David!”

“No! No, Patrick’s car died and they helped us—”

“Did you insult her dress again?”

“I _apologized!_ ” David insists. Patrick steps forward and gently takes the knife from him (which, okay, rude, but it’s probably for the best), nudging him out of the way so he can finish chopping vegetables for the salad.

Alexis scrunches up her nose as she opens a bottle of wine. “Okay, so then what’s the problem?”

“We want to ask them to be a vendor,” Patrick tells her.

“And?” she asks, impatiently.

“And what?”

Alexis rolls her eyes and pours three glasses of wine. “And what’s your PR issue?”

David looks at his husband. “We just… don’t know how to appeal to them?”

“Okay, well, what did they say when you asked them?”

“Well, we, um…” He looks at Patrick for help.

“We were about to, but then—”

“So you didn’t even _ask_ them,” she says, as if they’re idiots.

Which… maybe they are. “Our car was broken down! You showed up! We were—”

“Okay, well, my _professional_ advice is to just ask them,” she responds, taking a sip of her wine. “And maybe don’t, like,” she gestures vaguely at David, her eyes going wide and her mouth pulling into a grimace.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?!”

“Your vibe can just be really… _intense_ , you know?”

“Wow. Thanks so much,” David responds before taking a gulp of his wine.

“Look, my advice is to… maybe let Patrick handle this one.”

David glances at his husband, who is positively _gleeful_. “Maybe _what!_ ”

“Yeah, David, maybe I should take this one, you know, since your _vibe_ is so _intense_ ,” Patrick tells him, grinning like the troll he is.

“Look, David? You have a really… _specific_ brand, okay, and that’s _great_ , I just think that like, appealing to the Amish is maybe more of a Patrick thing?”

“Yeah, it’s a me thing,” his husband gloats.

“Right, like, he’s so wholesome and inoffensive and has like, a boy-next-door, small-town youth pastor vibe.”

“Wait, what?!” Patrick asks, offended.

“You’re just like…” She purses her lips and shimmies her shoulders a bit. “You know?”

David grins, feeling much better now. “Yeah, honey, your energy is just much more _Amish_ than mine.”

“All I’m saying is when you meet with them, maybe Patrick does the talking.”

“Mmhmm, because he vibes so well with the Amish,” David says, feeling like he got one up on Patrick, even though he’s basically being cut out of the negotiation.

Patrick just silently chops the tomatoes, the knife thwacking against the cutting board a little harder than strictly necessary as he pouts. 

David smirks as he watches Patrick. “If you go any harder, you might cut right through the board,” he chides, and Alexis makes a noise of agreement next to him. 

“Yeah, like, wood chips just flying everywhere,” she adds. “A broken knife blade, or something.”

Patrick shovels the tomatoes into a large bowl and grabs a cucumber next, slicing it right down the middle. “Uh-huh.” It’s sharp and dismissive.

David digs his elbows into the counter. “You’ll win them over, honey, don’t worry.” He doesn’t miss the way Patrick’s sparse brows twitch upwards. “What?”

“So by you saying I ‘vibe’ well with the Amish, it’s just another way of saying I’m ‘boring’ or stuffy,’ right?”

“No, not at all!” Alexis defends, her hands up. “You’re totally not stuffy, but you’re, like, cute and clean-cut and--”

“Predictable.” Patrick sets the knife down with a clatter, his expression flat. “I’m predictable.” 

“I was going to say _dependable,_ actually.” 

“That just proves my point, Alexis.”

“You’re not _predictable.”_ David comes around to squeeze his shoulders. “That sweater from earlier? Very unpredictable,” he assures because, really, it was. “You have a pale complexion, so mustard yellow kind of washes you out.”

Patrick huffs. “Okay. Not helping here, David.”

“It was a change of pace, but you looked great.” He kicks himself at how high his voice goes up at the end there. David hopes pasting a big grin on his face passes for some sort of sincerity. 

It doesn’t.

“Your eyes are very wide,” Patrick motions at him. 

“Yeah, David,” Alexis starts, “like really big and round and--”

“Okay, you _shh!”_ He snaps at her, fingers pinched together. David turns back to Patrick, his smile fading into something gentle. “You have a great look, it’s _yours._ Blue is very much your color.”

“But it’s all I wear, therefore I’m predictable,” Patrick argues, picking the knife up again. “So I’ll wear my modest, very unsurprising clothes and talk to these people in a few days.”

“Patrick.” David leans into him from behind. “I love how you look, your green crewneck looks amazing on you, and you _know_ I’m always a fan of those tight jeans.” He gives Patrick’s shoulders another squeeze. “But what you wear has nothing to do with getting Miriam to come on as a vendor. I pissed them off years ago so there’s a pretty good chance they’ll like you a lot better than me. Alright?” 

Patrick finally looks at him now, his lips quirking into a tight smile. “Okay,” he mutters. “Hey, what if I brought that grey shirt out again? The one with the short sleeves?”

 _Whiskey._ “Mh, we can _definitely_ have a conversation about that one. Down the line.” David gives a short chuckle. “Your arms looked very good, you know I wouldn’t lie about that.” 

By the time they sit down to eat Patrick seems to have more or less stopped sulking about the predictability of his clothes. He asks Alexis some questions that strongly imply he actually listens to her when she talks about work, and David has half his attention on what she’s saying and half on making sure Patrick doesn’t drop any slices of cucumber on the new table when he picks them out of his salad and drops them unceremoniously on David’s plate. He has one ankle hooked around Patrick’s under the table, and he watches his sister wave her hands around—trying not to wince over the fact that one of those hands is holding a fork full of food—as she tells a celebrity story that doesn’t end in a call to an embassy but in her doing her job. Not that he would admit it to her, but he’s really proud of her. It’s all very domestic, in a way he could never have imagined just a few years ago, and he can’t help but think not for the first time that they all ended up exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

When they’ve finished eating, Patrick joins him in the kitchen to take care of the dishes while Alexis, somewhat predictably, settles herself in the living room with a glass of wine. As soon as the lasagna dish is soaking David takes advantage of a room without his sister in it to nose his way along Patrick’s jaw, pressing his lips to the spot behind Patrick’s ear that makes him shiver before reeling him in for a deep kiss, magnanimously deciding that he can look past the garlic on his husband’s tongue considering David also basically ate his body weight in the same garlic bread tonight. 

“I know what you’re doing, David,” Patrick murmurs when he pulls back, and if he’s trying for annoyed he’s missing the mark by a mile—he’s giving David one of those fond smiles that is usually followed by him saying something unbearably sincere.

“Mm. Guess we’re both predictable,” David replies. “But you don’t seem to be complaining.”

Patrick drops his forehead to David’s shoulder as he huffs a laugh. “I love you,” he says quietly, and David presses a kiss into his hairline.

“Love you too, honey.”

“Ugh, you two are gross.” His sister’s voice from the doorway makes them jump apart as if they’d been caught doing something much worse than canoodling in their own kitchen. When he looks up to snap back at her, though, the words die in his throat at the look on her face. It’s fond, but also a little wistful, and so instead of telling her he’ll kiss his husband as much as he likes in their home, thank you, he just steps out of Patrick’s embrace with one last squeeze and heads for the freezer to dig out some ice cream. 

Patrick and Alexis head into the living room, because apparently David is their personal waiter now. David makes his way into the living room, juggling three spoons, two bowls of sorbet, and one pint of Triple Chocolate Caramel Swirl, glaring at Patrick once he looks up from the conversation he'd been having with Alexis. "You just enjoy watching me struggle, don't you?"

"Are you hurt? Should I call the ambulance? I'm too young to be a widower, you know." Patrick deadpans.

Ugh, no ice cream for his troll of a husband.

"Umm, David? What is this I'm eating?" Alexis asks.

David's eyes snap over to see that Alexis somehow grabbed one of the bowls out of his hands while he wasn't paying attention. "What you're _shoveling into your face_ —while wearing _my_ sweater, oh my god, were you raised by wolves—is a delicious low-fat blackberry sorbet from our new jam vendor." He perches on the couch next to Patrick, who has picked up his own bowl.

"Mmhmm. And why am I eating this and not that yummy-looking chocolatey thing you've got over there?" She gestures with her spoon.

David clutches his precious pint to his chest.

"Come on, David, it’s your sister."

David shoots Patrick a glare and yanks the bowl out of his hand while the spoon is still halfway to Patrick's mouth. 

"Hey! I was eating that!"

Before David can volley back a retort about why Patrick doesn't _deserve_ sorbet, Patrick's phone begins to vibrate on the coffee table. “ _Bob,_ ” Patrick mouths, popping up from the couch and looking at David with a grimace before heading into the kitchen to take the call. 

Sliding from her chair to take Patrick's place on the couch, Alexis cuddles up to David's side, reaching for the coveted pint of chocolatey goodness. She takes a bite, and then to his surprise, angles it back toward him.

He forgets sometimes, how far they've come.

"I'm sure it'll be fine. Your little button is, like, a financial genius." She tips her head onto his shoulder.

"Mm," David replies noncommittally, using his left thumb to spin his wedding ring. 

Patrick returns to the living room after his conversation with Bob and quietly walks over and settles himself at David’s other side. Alexis is regaling him with a story about needing to source seven swans for the launch of Interflix’s latest Christmas movie—apparently she’s their Avian Ambassador now. Patrick shakes with laughter at the job title, but keeps it together.

"Let’s watch a movie," David suggests. 

The three of them spend some time bickering about the movie choice. Patrick wins, because David votes with him and not for Alexis’s pick of _Mean Girls—_ he’s not in the mood to hear about her and Lindsey Lohan’s misadventures. That was the most stressful six days of David’s life. Patrick picked _Singin’ in the Rain_ so he can research his role of Don. It’s a touch on the nose after the rain-soaked day they’ve had, but David has always been supportive of the arts _and_ his husband.

Patrick goes into the kitchen with the empty bowls, spoons, and ice-cream carton, and emerges with a bottle of wine, topping up their glasses. David begrudgingly gets up from his comfortable spot on the couch to grab the blanket sitting on the armchair in the corner. He turns on the TV and settles himself in between his husband and his sister, who immediately tuck themselves into his sides. He drapes the blanket over the three of them, turning and pressing a kiss to Patrick’s temple as the opening credits begin to roll. 

"Hey," David whispers, still facing his husband. "How’d it go with Bob? Is the car going to be okay?"

"Sounds like car shopping is in our future. But don’t worry. Just let’s watch the movie, okay? We’ll talk in the morning." With that, he rests his head on David’s shoulder and his hand on David’s thigh, and _dear god_ why does Patrick’s hand on his thigh _still_ send a shiver down his spine? 

Patrick’s head is still on David’s shoulder when he starts softly singing along with Gene Kelly to "You Were Meant For Me", his fingers keeping time on David’s leg. He feels lucky and content to have this life with Patrick, even sweeter with Alexis softly snuffling next to him, fast asleep. 

David reaches for Patrick’s hand and threads their fingers together, biting back a smile when Patrick immediately squeezes back. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to this being his life, that he gets to live his happily ever after. David allows his eyes to sweep over the room—the curtains he spent weeks agonizing over, the framed photos from their wedding day displayed lovingly beside the receipt Patrick gifted him on their first date, the myriad plants that Patrick insists on arranging all over the house. 

Each carefully curated piece of furniture and every meticulously selected item of decor not only represent his excellent taste, but also prompts a flood of memories. His mind wanders thinking about all the memories this cottage holds. The good memories, lazy Sunday mornings in bed with tea and a good book—the bad, the time they forgot to put away Patrick’s blue tie and Marcy found it looped conspicuously around the bars of the guest bed’s headboard—and those in between, the argument they had over, of all things, an ottoman that brought curses, tears, and eventually, uncontrollable laughter—all weave together to create a beautifully intricate tapestry that is their marriage. 

David’s chest constricts with emotion at all these little details that make up their home. Patrick’s thumb brushes softly across the back of his hand, and David has to blink back a sudden wave of tears at the way Patrick always knows when David is feeling overwhelmed with emotion. He focuses on the warmth of his husband’s and sister’s bodies pressing against him on either side and the way that familiar comfort curls around his heart. David’s body relaxes into the sofa, his eyes slipping closed, and his last thought before succumbing to the pull of sleep is of how even on a day filled with broken-down cars, uncomfortable reunions, and rain-soaked clothes, he is still happier than he ever dreamed possible. 

**

David can hear birds. Are they crows? Are they chasing him? He jolts awake, sitting up much faster than he normally would, and is relieved to discover that the bird sounds are coming from outside—Patrick had opened the window when he got up. He stretches and yawns, glad they’d all gone to bed before Don and Kathy sang their way to happily ever after instead of sleeping all night on the couch.

Padding over to look out their bedroom window, David can see there are no crows about to attack, only songbirds swarming the feeders placed around the garden. A couple of smaller birds are perched on the garden gnome’s head, and a bluejay is doing his best to bully the other birds.

After all the rain the day before, the air is clear and fresh, and David is excited to start their day off with Alexis, even if it's technically too early to be awake.

Until he remembers: they have no functioning car. Or rather, Patrick’s terrible car is not functioning. _Dammit,_ this is going to throw a wrench in their plans for the day. Alexis is finally here, for only two days, and they're going to be stuck at the cottage unable to do anything. 

He gets back into bed, trying not to wake Patrick, and runs through a mental list of things they could do together here. They could watch a movie, but they’ve already done that. They could have a home spa day. Maybe that’s too quaint for Alexis, now that she’s back in the city. She probably goes to an _actual_ spa on the regular. She doesn’t have to make do with the home version anymore. Not like she did when they still lived in the motel. Not like David still does because he’d rather set his face on fire than trust Janine with his skin. He still remembers what she’d done with his mother’s hair all those years ago and has to suppress a snort—it had been hilarious and horrifying, seeing his mother with Jocelyn’s hair style. But the thought of trusting his dewy and blemish-free skin to a woman with one signature hairstyle that, quite frankly, went out of style in 1994, well. It’s just never going to happen. 

So with movies and makeovers off the table, David is once again at a loss. Then he thinks about last night. How impressed Alexis had been with his zucchini bread. _Are you, like, a little baker now? That is such a cute look for you._ Hmm. So maybe...maybe—

“You’re thinking awfully loud up there,” Patrick murmurs, rolling over and settling his head against David’s chest, wrapping him up in his arms and sliding his leg up over David’s thigh. “Everything okay?”

David nods even though he knows Patrick can’t see him. He smoothes a hand down Patrick’s back, then up into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “I think I’m going to teach Alexis to bake today,” he says. He frowns when his pronouncement is met with deafening silence. “Patrick? Did you hear me?”

“Yup. Yes, yeah. I heard you.” There’s something in Patrick’s voice, a kind of slightly amused, strangled hesitancy, like he’s holding himself back from saying something. “Um. If that’s what you...if you’re sure.”

“I am sure,” David says. And he is. Kind of. Almost entirely sure that this isn’t a very bad idea. 

**

It's a very bad idea. “For the last time,” David snaps, “we are making chocolate chip cookies. It is a very simple concept! They are cookies! With chocolate chips!”

“Okay, but it’s just, like, super basic, David.” Alexis tugs at her ears thoughtfully. “I just think you could do better, you know? _We_ could,” she amends, as David glares at her. “We could do better. I was at this book launch party the other week, for a tell-all unauthorized biography of Gaia Matisse’s ex-boyfriend’s cousin, and they had these little white chocolate macarons with bergamot and white pepper centers? We could totally do that.”

“ _We_ could not,” David says, with what he feels is admirable patience. “ _We_ are making plain chocolate chip cookies, because that is what I have a recipe for, and that is what I have ingredients for, and that’s what we’re making!” His voice goes dangerously high.

“Ugh, chill, David.” Alexis grimaces. “Live a little. Just because you’ve got your cute little life in your cute little house with your cute husband, you don’t have to be boring.”

David gapes at her. Her words seem to echo in his ears, slowing down until he feels like the air is ringing with them. Fuck Alexis, he thinks distantly, and her unerring ability to know exactly what he's most worried about and then poke it viciously. 

David watches as Alexis opens all of the cupboards. “What are you _doing?_ ” David snaps, getting his voice back.

“Ugh, David, you don’t even have any almond flour, we really couldn’t make macarons.”

David’s mouth opens and closes three times. He feels it.

“Whatever, David, Twy and I have been watching a _lot_ of _Great British Bake-Off_ on Netflix Party. Ooh—” She holds up some cornstarch, “—We could make cream puffs, David! With some rosemary in the cream? And grapefruit.” David does not have, or intend to eat, grapefruit. “You have eggs, right?

“Yes, we have eggs, Alexis, we live in the middle of farmland.”

“Oh, yay!” She claps her hands three times. “This is going to be so much fun, David!”

That turns out to be, at _best_ , a gross exaggeration. Watching television, it turned out, has not taught Alexis how to bake. They look up a recipe online, and David grudgingly admits that they have all the necessary ingredients and can probably boil water. Alexis is a different story. “I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that, David,” she says when he adds the last egg into the pastry.

“Well, what is it supposed to look like?”

“I don’t know, kind of--” She does an expansive, floaty gesture with her hands.

“Okay, well, that’s very helpful, but could you help me spoon this onto the tray?” They're supposed to be piped onto the tray, but David doesn't have the kind of lifestyle that requires piping bags. He can get something round-ish with two spoons, he figures, like with cookie dough.

But this stuff is nothing like cookie dough. It's sort of gloppy and shiny and sticky and wet and Alexis does not agree to help. He puts it in the oven anyway, and then he turns on the oven light and stares at it like he’ll be able to see the moment it turns puffy, and then the moment it's ready to come out of the oven.

Alexis is doing something behind him, though. He ignores her because, honestly. But when she says, “Ugh, David, I’ve been stirring this for, like, _minutes_ , it’s your turn,” he gets up— _not_ to help her, but to see—and there are cracked eggs, an empty bowl, something on the stove, and Alexis stirring.

“What is going on here?”

“I’m making the filling, David, and if you could stir for a minute, that would be very helpful.”

“But what did you do?”

“I followed the recipe, David, you’re not the only one who can read instructions!”

That isn’t—exactly true, David is pretty sure. Alexis isn’t incapable and she's mostly literate. She would never go hungry because someone would always want to feed her. But this Alexis, hair in a messy bun, standing over a pot on the stove with no smell of burning—he has no frame of reference for her at all. “I’ll stir when they come out of the oven,” he says.

He makes coffee and cleans the kitchen while they wait for the filling to cool in the fridge; he insists on being the one to cut the tops precisely off every ball of pastry so they ccan spoon the cream inside. Maybe he needs piping bags, he thinks—but no, Alexis will be gone soon, and he'll go back to being a guy who makes chocolate chip cookies in his normal, beautiful house for his normal, beautiful husband.

“Fuck,” he says when he actually tastes one. “Alexis, this is really fucking good.”

“Well, _yeah_ , David.”

“No, Alexis, most people don’t just—decide to try baking and start with cream puffs.”

“Uh, why not?” She finishes a cream puff, too, and starts on her second. “Okay, I am texting Twy and telling her to come over and try some of these, and she is going to take us to find a car.” 

“You can't just do that, Alexis,” Patrick says, walking in from his garden. “What if Twyla has stuff to do today?”

David and Alexis both roll their eyes in a gesture so synchronized it would seem planned if Patrick didn’t know them better. David snorts and picks up another cream puff, twisting his arm and shoving it in his mouth as Alexis bats at his hand. “What could she possibly be doing today?”

“Working,” Patrick mumbles around a mouthful of cream puff.

“She’s a _millionaire,_ Patrick,” David mutters, because he and Patrick aren’t technically supposed to know that. But, Alexis gets chatty when she drinks, and she and David have yet to have a Facetime where they’re not both sipping on something bubbly. 

“David!” Alexis hisses in admonition, and David just wiggles his face at her. “Twyla told me last week that she’s stepping back a little at the cafe, now that she’s put George in charge of the floor and hired Sylvia on as the new line cook,” Alexis explains to Patrick.

“Besides, the pastries aren’t the only cream puff Twyla gets a bite of if she does us the favor, I’m guessing,” David says as he slides off the stool he’s perching on, dodging Alexis’ flying hand as she gives him the middle finger and tells him to chew batteries. He pulls a couple of different-sized glass containers from the tupperware cabinet and tries not to listen as Patrick leans in closer to Alexis and says, “So you and Twyla, huh? That’s a thing that’s happening?”

Alexis shrugs and David feels her eyes cut to him. “It’s not a thing that’s _not_ happening,” Alexis says quietly, scooping up a finger of leftover pastry cream, shoving the tip into her mouth and hopping off the bar stool.

“I’m going to go shower.”

“Again,” David can’t help but point out.

“Yes, David. Patrick got _three_ and I’m like. Being around my brother clean, not riding in the car in public with other people clean,” she throws over her shoulder as she heads upstairs.

“Patrick lives here!” He calls after her, but the door shuts before he finishes and he hears the slow, steady drone of the shower overhead. 

“What exactly is ‘riding in a car in public’ clean?” Patrick says, coming up behind David and wrapping his arms around David’s middle, standing on his toes to rest his chin on David’s shoulder. David wraps his arms over Patrick’s, pulling his husband a fraction of an inch closer and breathing in the scent of the lemon-verbena shampoo they stock at the store. 

David lets himself linger like that for a few seconds, Patrick warm and solid against his back, before gently plucking Patrick’s hands up and off so David can finish putting the cream puffs away. “I think she really means ‘seeing Twyla and wanting to look glamorous’ clean,” David responds airily. He can’t help the fondness that wells up in him as he thinks of how bright Alexis’ voice goes when she talks about how close she’s gotten with Twyla. Even if it is _Twyla_.

Once the cream puffs are taken care of, there’s nothing else to keep the intrusive thoughts at bay, and he’s left thinking about the jabbing pain he’d felt at Alexis using the word _boring_ about him and his life. He settles on the couch with a book while Patrick watches sports highlights (something no amount of time married will explain to David). He can hear the water running, and birds chirping outside, and it’s all so incredibly domestic. Which David loves. He really, _really_ does. But Alexis’ comment keeps floating around the periphery of his mind, like a horrifying bug he’s trying not to look at directly so he can pretend it isn’t real.

“Hey,” he starts, trying for casual. Patrick gives him a noncommittal hum in response, and David bites the inside of his cheek. “Patrick,” he says, a bit louder. Patrick glances to him and must see something on his face worth paying attention to, because he mutes the television. 

“What is it, David?” Patrick’s eyes have their trademark softness, and that alone makes David feel better.

“Just because we’re married doesn’t mean we’re boring, right?” David says in a rush, feeling like a self-loathing teenager even as the words come out of his mouth.

Patrick’s eyes widen in surprise. “Sorry, what? Where is this coming from?” 

David gestures vaguely in the direction of the bathroom. “Just something Alexis said.”

“Ah, well.” Patrick’s smiling a little now, and that puts David at ease even more. “I guess yesterday was my turn to feel boring because of Alexis, so today it’s yours.”

Rolling his eyes, David makes a swatting motion in the air towards Patrick, but it does make him feel better. 

Patrick continues. “David, we got stranded in the middle of a rainstorm yesterday and had to seek shelter at an Amish farm. Where you had _already been_. How many people get to do that?”

After a pause, David finally nods. “I guess,” he concedes. That part is true. And maybe will lead to another vendor for the store. He really needs to stop letting Alexis get in his head. 

David stretches his legs out and slips his socked toes under Patrick’s thigh. Patrick’s gaze lingers over David’s face, clearly checking to make sure David’s feeling better. David tucks a small grin into the corner of his mouth and Patrick settles his hand on David’s calf before turning back to his sports program, which now seems to be covering diving if the men parading around in speedos is anything to go by. 

David has just picked his book back up, finally getting to the climax of the plot when he hears a knock at the door. How the _fuck_ did Twyla get here so fast? Why didn’t Alexis tell her she was going to shower? Alexis should _still_ remember David’s required thirty minute warning before a guest shows up.

David drops his book on the console table at the back of the couch with a sigh, begrudgingly extracts his toes from under Patrick and shuffles toward the door. 

Twyla's face visibly falls when she sees David on the other side of the door instead of Alexis, but her smile is still annoyingly bright. 

"Alexis is in the shower," David says by way of greeting, stepping aside to let Twyla in. “Where’s your car?”

“Oh! That’s okay. I’m sure she’ll be out soon,” she chirps, dropping her bag off in the entry hall and making her way into the house like she comes here all the time. “Oh, I walked here.”

David’s so floored by Twyla’s immediate comfort in his home and lack of car it takes him several seconds before he finally closes the front door, gingerly picks up Twyla's bag and hangs it on the designated purse hook not even an inch from where she'd dropped her bag. The whole point was she was going to help them get a car...and now what are they gonna do? Huffing quietly, he follows her into the living room where she’s made herself comfortable in the armchair and is telling Patrick in graphic detail about the time her cousin’s best friend once fell off a diving board and David _can't_ with that story so he heads upstairs just as he hears Alexis turn on her hairdryer. 

He finds Alexis _not_ in the guest bathroom but in _his_ bathroom with what looks like the entirety of her cosmetic bag spread out on his side of the vanity. 

"Um… a few things real quick," he says, his voice rising several octaves in an attempt to be heard over the hum of the blow-dry.

Alexis's eyes meet his in the mirror as she yells back, "what?"

"Your _girlfriend_ is downstairs!" He shouts just as she turns the dryer off. 

"Oh my God David! We're like, not really using labels right now, what if she _heard_ you?" Alexis says, waving the hairdryer around dangerously. 

"And what the hell is all your stuff doing all over my bathroom? Did you use _my_ shower?"

"Um David, it's also Patrick's shower," she says with an eye roll, "and the lighting is way better in here." 

“Okay, then, did you use _Patrick’s_ shower?” he asks, indignant at this blatant disregard for overnight guest protocols. Alexis has always done what she wants, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.

“It’s a shower, David! We used to share the one at the motel for years, remember? Now let me finish getting ready. I can’t keep Twy waiting too long.”

“What, or she’ll leave? Please. Did you even come here to visit _me?_ ”

“Of course I did, David. I know how to multitask, and it’s much more efficient to see you both at once than to make two separate trips anyway. It’s called leveraging travel time,” Alexis says, and he wants to leave, but, it’s _his_ bathroom and she should be the one fleeing. 

Patrick suddenly walks in, surprised to see Alexis there. “Oh, sorry, did I somehow walk into the guest bathroom accidentally?” he jokes, but there’s no vitriol there.

“See, even Patrick thinks you should use your own bathroom!” David exclaims, thankful his husband has chosen to support rather than troll him in this moment. Patrick reaches to his side of the sink, where his wedding ring rests in his trinket dish. He must have forgotten to put it back on after his shower.

“Okay, I need to finish getting ready while my—while Twy waits downstairs, and you two are just _not helping_. Ugh!” Alexis grabs her things, tossing various skincare and makeup products back into her bag and shuffling briskly out of the ensuite.

“Maybe we should have let her get ready in here,” Patrick says, twisting his ring into place. “She seems really nervous.”

“I don’t care! Do you know how many times she kicked me out of our bathroom at the motel when I was trying to get ready for _our_ dates?”

“Aww, were you trying to look good for me?” Patrick asks, smirking, as he leans in for a kiss. “I was a sure thing, David. You already had me hooked well before you started _trying_ to dress up for me.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s a very nice thing to say,” David swoons, leaning into his husband. 

“What’s the second thing?” Patrick pulls away from their kiss, brow furrowed. 

“No second thing,” he replies absently. “Although...now I’m thinking maybe we shouldn’t have left Twyla to her own devices downstairs.” 

It turns out Twyla’s devices were incredibly helpful and not something to lose sleep over at all. As they round the banister down the stairs, having left Alexis to her own, much more questionable devices in the bathroom, Twyla’s just hanging up her phone and smiling wide. 

“Darlene’s cousin is on the way!”

“Okay?” Seems like a non sequitur, but David’s got time to entertain it.

“She’s had Miriam’s butter before. She’s invested. Said she’ll give you a ride if you promise her some of the first shipment.”

David squints and looks sideways at his husband for agreement. 

“Sure?” Patrick says. “Sure, whatever she wants. Thanks, Twyla.”

“I did promise her some cream puffs for the road...”

David is still a little afraid of Darlene’s cousin, but times are desperate. This town is full of unexpected allies, and if there's anything David knows, it's the power of quality dairy. A wheel of smuggled époisses saw his six-year feud with Brendan Fraser come to an end. Maybe this car ride won't be so bad. 

David bites out a grin. “Whatever she wants.”

So, something like magic, ten minutes later—just as Alexis finally surfaces from her traveling beauty salon, looking gorgeous, looking like she’s ready for a night out in Manhattan, not a day trip to the farm—a Toyota Sienna comes barreling into the driveway.

“A minivan?” David elbows Patrick in the side.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Patrick’s laughing, but his hand grabs at David’s waist and threads through his arm, pulls him in close as they walk down the driveway toward their white metal chariot. 

“It was _your car_ that broke down.”

“You know, this is actually filling a fantasy of mine—picking the kids up from soccer in our minivan, you made them cookies, I’m playing DJ on the radio.” 

“As if Darlene’s cousin is gonna let you DJ.”

Patrick pouts, but moves past it. “Do you think she has a name?” he asks in a whisper. “Besides, you know, ‘Darlene’s cousin.’”

Before David can answer, he’s interrupted.

“Hope you’re feeling lucky today, boys. If you don’t get the contract you’re walkin’ the fuck home.” 

“Fun, David!” Alexis swings into the middle row. “Those kinds of stakes bring me right back to junior high. Twy, come sit by me!”

Twyla settles into the middle seat Alexis is patting, which leaves David with a choice. He can sit up front with a person who’s been nothing but openly hostile to him, or he can try to gracefully maneuver into the back row of this cave on wheels. He’d rather drag himself through a desert. Nudging Patrick and his DJ dreams out of the way, he climbs into the passenger seat.

Darlene’s cousin is as aggressive a driver as she is an aggressive everything, so at first the conversational void is full of her shouting at everyone else on the road to “Move your asses!” and “Fucking _merge_ , already!”

Once they reach the most rural stretch of the highway, there’s a silence that drags on for literal centuries, until David can’t stand it. He clears his throat.

“So, how is…” Wait, he has no knowledge of this person’s life. What’s he going to ask? _How is butter?_ “...Darlene?”

She passes a truck full of chickens on the right. “Who?”

David shuts up after that, and thankfully it’s not long before they reach the farm. When they all pile out of the car, the sunshine is immediately too bright.

“So, if you want my professional opinion—”

“No one asked for that, Alexis!” God, David’s sweating. Is everyone else sweating?

“Ugh, David, stop! My professional opinion is still that Patrick should take the lead on this one, but also, I am ready to step in if you need me. Oh my god, I should’ve worn my fashion pony! Do you think that would’ve worked on the Amish? A long silky horse tail would probably seem very... soothing and trustworthy to them.”

“I think the fashion pony works on everyone.”

“Aw, thanks Twy!”

“Okay, can you two flirt later? Like, at a time when I’m not facing down professional humiliation in front of an audience of barnyard animals? I can only take so much stress at once.”

“David.” Patrick’s hand presses into the small of his back. “Why don’t we start by going up to the house? If nothing else, it takes care of the audience.” 

David realizes they neglected to let the Yoders know they’d be coming as soon as he knocks on the door. Although, he’s not entirely sure how they could have warned them—it’s not like the Amish have phones. At least, he’s pretty sure they don’t have phones.

Rachel Yoder answers the door, and she and David are several seconds into an uncomfortable staring contest when Patrick steps in to rescue them.

“Hi, Mrs. Yoder, it’s so nice to see you again. Um—we were wondering if—I mean, we’d like to…” Okay, so maybe Patrick won’t be rescuing them after all.

“David and Patrick were hoping to talk to you about a business proposition,” Alexis chimes in. “So, like, maybe we could all sit down, maybe have a few snacks, like some nice bread and _butter—_ ”

“Oh my _god_ , Alexis, can you just _stop_ , we can _handle this_ ,” David hisses.

“Um, but obviously you _can’t_ because, like, you needed _my help_ to even get here, since Patrick’s car is—”

“My car is fine,” Patrick snaps, “and if Bob can repair it—”

“Your car is a _death trap_ ,” David replies, “and I’m not letting you drive it anymore.”

“Well,” Patrick manages through gritted teeth, “I hope you can find another ride to work from now on, then.”

David turns back towards the open door to apologize to Rachel for the disruption, but the door is closed, and Rachel’s gone.

“Fuck. Look what you did, Alexis! You scared her away.”

“Um, it’s not _my_ fault you’re so bad with potential vendors, David.”

“Actually,” Twyla says, and all three of them—David, Patrick, and Alexis—turn around in surprise, having forgotten Twyla was there. “She went inside with Darlene’s cousin.” 

David turns to the door, staring at its dark wood in dismay. The door stares back, taunting him as the voices of Rachel and Darlene’s Whateverthefuckhernameis drift through the screen. 

“Knew we should’ve brought the cream puffs,” David huffs, crossing his arms and tapping his foot impatiently as he briefly contemplates the legality of breaking and entering in defense of his besmirched honor. But then he remembers the Syracuse Spatula Incident of ‘03, and decides it’s probably best to preserve his mostly untarnished criminal record. Besides, his husband will never let him hear the end of it if David’s venture into butter burglary ends up costing them a solid business deal.

Almost as if Patrick can hear his thoughts, he chuckles quietly. “What’s so funny?” David has to ask, a small part of him legitimately concerned that he has been married to a mind reader all this time. It’s an absolutely insane thought, he knows, but it’s oddly reassuring when Patrick elects to comment on their current situation. 

“Ah, it was just...I was thinking about how _un_ -boring the last two days have been.”

“The minivan was definitely a surprise,” David agrees. He’d only been in a minivan once before, when he found himself in the passenger seat of a 1997 Dodge Caravan at the Detroit-Windsor tunnel with Alexis at the wheel. Yet somehow, the ride with Darlene’s cousin (no relation) felt more harrowing than trying to convince a border agent that the chicken clucking hopelessly in the backseat was a treasured family pet.

Alexis’ mouth falls agape, eyes squinting as she slots pieces of a mental puzzle together. “Um? Wait. Have you both been acting weird because I kept calling you ‘boring?’”

“Actually, you kept using the word ‘cute’?” David says quickly. “Which I know by your definition means that we might as well be the human equivalent of dial-up internet.”

“‘Kay, but I meant it in, like, a good way! ‘Boring’ is a _compliment_ , David!” 

It’s almost impossible for David’s arms to tighten even further around him than they already have. Nevertheless, he succeeds, and adds a flare of the nostrils just to really drive the passive-aggression into his sister’s heart. 

Alright. Fine. Maybe her "boring" comment affected him more than he’d like to admit, and maybe a not insignificant part of him is worried that there’s some truth behind it, and maybe that’s why he turns the melodramatics up to eleven. “I’m not following your logic with that,” he says, relentless and unyielding, even though they both know otherwise.

Alexis glances at Twyla before groaning in a spectacularly dramatic fashion, true to the Rose brand. 

Before Alexis gets a chance to respond, the door opens again. Darlene’s cousin and Rachel appear again, except this time, Rachel is smiling, which is, quite frankly, more disconcerting than her resting face.

Darlene’s cousin jabs a finger at him. “Come back on Monday with the paperwork and don’t mess this up. Let’s go.”

“Yes, see you Monday.” Rachel's smile falters when she looks at David, but she slips it back in place when Patrick reaches out to shake her hand.

They get back into the forsaken minivan, and ride back to the cottage in bewildered silence. Twyla hops out with them and thanks their fairy godmother/mafia boss, promising free lunch specials for a month. There’s no more yelling, so, that’s something at least. 

Darlene’s cousin peels out of his driveway, tiny bits of gravel flying onto their lawn. 

Twyla flings herself into Alexis’s arms. “I knew you could close the deal,” she chirps, kissing Alexis in a way he hasn’t been forced to witness in years, and definitely not sober. They might not be using words to label things, but they are clearly using mouths. “Now let’s get you that victory smoothie.”

“Mm, sounds perfect babe.” Alexis sets Twyla back down and turns to David. “I’ll be back for dinner, can’t wait to see what you chef up.” She gives her shoulders a little shimmy on the word ‘chef’ and grabs Twyla’s hand. They set off down the path.

“What just happened?” David asks, throwing his arms up, heading into his perfectly boring and completely lovely house. He lies on the couch dramatically, still not sure how they came to have no car, but a new vendor and potential sister-in-law in such a short span of time.

“I honestly have no idea. But I think we should just be grateful and take advantage of all the sudden privacy.” Patrick climbs on top of him, fitting them together and leaning down to kiss David in a decidedly not boring way. 

It’s been a few minutes when David pushes him away. “You didn’t forget the sample in the car, did you?”

Patrick chases back to his lips. “No, David.”

“Cause I’m going to be hungry after this.”

“I know, David.”

“And we have—”

“Fresh bread from the place in Elmington. Yes.”

“Fine,” David humfs and pulls his husband back down. “You may continue.”

“Mmm,” Patrick buzzes into him. “I'm honored you picked me over the butter.”

"This time."


End file.
